


Settle my Score

by thumbipeach



Series: Falling from the Fig Tree (Greek Myth AU) [2]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Purple Hyacinth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BACK ON MY BULLSHIT, DeathGod!Kieran, Eurydice!Kym, F/M, Flower Symbolism, Greek myth AU, Honestly just poetic crack at this point, I AM ALSO A FOOL, If you call this crack I would believe you, I’m??? Just, Language of Flowers, No beta we die like all of Lune’s convicts, Not just the clown I am the whole damn circus, Orpheus!William, SpringGoddess!Lauren, The whole gang’s here what have i done, absolute nonsense as per usual, alternate universe - gods and goddesses, and for some reason people think I do???, and what’s new I am too, fools FOOLS, orpheus and eurydice au, please take my keyboard away from me, they're fools the whole lot of them, you know I’m not sure what I’m doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:13:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24795223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thumbipeach/pseuds/thumbipeach
Summary: He asks this of them, that blonde-haired boy with bitter death in his veins.They deliberate, and leave him with a choice.That choice is his undoing.—Or: People who know Life hold on too tightly to Death, because they are stubborn things that are not swayed by fear anymore.(Kywi Orpheus and Eurydice AU (Yes I’m serious))
Relationships: Kym Ladell/William Hawkes, Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White
Series: Falling from the Fig Tree (Greek Myth AU) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1793035
Comments: 13
Kudos: 42





	Settle my Score

**Author's Note:**

> Song to Listen to: “Talk” by Hozier (wow big surprise)

_1\. Begin_

She dies with no fanfare.

It’s almost funny; he wants to laugh when he sees her body laying artistically in the grass, white peplos smeared with green stains and, of course, poison leeching up her legs. It is so unlike her, that: the version of her stilled in sleep.

The snake slithers away, a golden, evil thing escaping its bitter shackle, and he is left alone with the crushing urge to rip the sounds bubbling up in his throat from himself, reach in and grab them, pull them out and place them in her own mouth, so she can breathe again. 

He clasps her body to his chest, strokes her hair with the care he would give his harp, and tries not to throttle her, to shake her so that she may wake again and tell him to stop it.

Grief.

It begins then. 

It does not stop.

———

The mortal woman comes like all the rest.

She is not disoriented, confused; she knows what happened. Her time came, the ticking of the great sundial ending when it should, as it should. Perhaps not _how_ it should, but she can reconcile that fact.

She meets Lady Spring on her commute. 

She is journeying back from her stay in the above, daisies in her fire red hair and clutching a bouquets of lavender hyacinths close to her chest. They take the same ferry, her being kind enough to grant her passage through her own means. She isn’t Death’s mere consort; she is his equal, and is awarded with complete control over all that is his.

The woman had heard of Spring’s beauty. Every mortal had: the crimson dawn of her hair, the constant waves of flowers, of fertility and abundance, and her eyes—hawk-like things of topaz, pensive and unforgiving, drawing and snaring. But she’d never experienced it up close, and to now have that honor, she understood the legends, the stories. She bloomed where things did not.

She tells her just so reluctantly, not wishing to incur the displeasure of the Bringer of Death. But to her immense surprise, the Goddess levels her with a warm look and a friendly smile.

“You discredit yourself! You are quite beautiful as well, my lovely friend.” She appears to take stock of the woman’s tawny eyes, her ocean waves of hair and set figure, sloping neck and graceful collarbones. She _is_ beautiful; even the land of death sees that, acknowledges it in the way it does not let her glow damper.

The woman shakes her head. “Please, Goddess, I—“

She waves a hand, yellow acacia pouring from her fingertips and settling on her himation, over the woman’s hunched knees. “Don’t be so formal!”

She leans in, taking her hand in soft, comforting digits, and the mortal feels whole, born anew with life.

“He’ll take care of you—he always does.” It’s a soft, hushed promise, one she believes almost immediately.

She nods. They continue down the river.

When they get there, Death himself waits. The Goddess walks up to him with undisguised enthusiasm, and gives him the bundle of hyacinths. He takes them from her fingers delicately, with immense and appreciative care, a broad and affectionate smile on his young face. The mortal is shocked—she thought Death could not ever possibly smile.

He turns to her and regards her with a modicum of pity, but in that is a practiced resignation. 

“Would you like to come, O’ Mortal?”

She nods. Her life was lived, she supposes. She doesn’t forget her husband, doesn’t forget the ripples of grass and the sound of his harp, doesn’t forget the happiness she felt. But she accepts that some things happen simply because life is out of their control.

It is in theirs, the ones that she faces, now.

Then, her hand is taken, and she is led down further, in the domain of the forgotten.

She doesn’t mind it.  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  
  


_2\. Journey_

  
  


He pleads with the Sun God, and it is almost a pathetic thing. The harsh rays beat down upon his progeny’s face, and he cannot find it in him to refuse the weeping man. 

His lyre is torn, pieces of it breaking in his fingertips as he begs for advice.

The God tells him this:

_Journey to the land of the dead._

_Bring an offering for Charon; he will accept it if it comes in the form of coin, because he is a greedy thing, like all Death is._

_Tame the heads of the dog that waits to nip at your heels; bring them each a cake of oat, and they will lap it up as dogs do._

_Do not speak to the fallen._

_Charm the Sorceress; she will show you the way._

_Do not anger Spring. Angering Death is one thing, but if you upset his equal you will have both to deal with._

When he holds up his lyre, spider’s-web strings bent with his spasms of grief, the Sun revitalizes it, painting it in gold and warmth.

“Use it.” He tells him. “Nobody, not even the Gods, can resist your melodies. I am sure of it.”

He nods decisively, a stern and set resolve under his musician fingers, in his cold blue eyes.

“How will you fare, mortal?”

He sets his teeth.

“I’ll handle it.”

And so he goes. He runs a hand through his hair, blonde-gold and riddled with pain, hikes up his white drapes, pins his himaton, tucks his harp under his arm, and begins.

He moves past the barley fields, the cities and towns, past the autumn chill and the still-lingering scent of summer, past his life where he left it poisoned on the foliage.

Down, down, down to where nothing grows, to find the one thing that managed to take root in his heart.

He builds the dam once more.

———

She watches the river of Asphodel flow.

It reminds her of the time she and Will had sat, feet bare and running with river muck, kicking their legs like children as the water rushed on, watermelon between their teeth. She’d been happy, then. 

It was difficult to reconcile that fainting, fleeting feeling of a long ago happiness with what she has now, a fragment of it thrown into the barren wind of below.

And then to her surprise, Spring comes to her. Little anthuriums begin to burst from underneath and in between her form, and she turns to find the Goddess there, looking at her solemnly. 

She’d seen her around from that first day of her death; walking in the palace, orange blossoms and hyacinths clutched in her fingertips; striding alongside her husband, peace on her face and adoration on his, a pomegranate held between them; around the riverbend, tending to the gladioli that sprung there.

But the mortal hadn't dared approach her; none of them down there really would. They knew who she was, knew that if they spoke to her they’d fall into that delusion that all of them seemed to have: that they could have the chance to be whole again.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She says, and her voice is the same lilting melody of that day. Kym nods.

“It is. But—” and she stops, looking down at the slightly withering anthuriums, crimson dripping from their stalks. “—it’s sad, somehow.”

The Goddess nods. “I understand.” She folds her arms behind her, straightening her spine and looking regally out to the rushing water. “It is a river of death, that one cannot escape.”

She looks back at Kym. “I’ve seen you around here.”

“So have I.”

She nods, extending a hand. “Lauren.”

She hesitates, not wanting to impose, but dives in at the open, appealing look on the other’s face. 

“Kym.”

“That’s a lovely name.”

“ _Thank you.”_ She’s a bit taken aback when she takes her hand and feels the silent life within. “Why are you—?”

She shakes her head. “You are...odd.”

She grimaces a little when Kym frowns, hands on her hips and a raise of her brow. “Do not take offense to it!” She waves her palms abstractedly. 

“It’s simply that I think you’re a bit too—”

Kym frowns. “What?”

“Peaceful.” She says it with finality, and it strikes the mortal how much she wishes it weren’t so. Because it’s true enough.

“The people that come down here are not always like you.” She says, and bends a little bit. “They are sad—they are hysterical. But you—”

Sage blossoms sprout in her hair, and she reaches up to them as the Goddess bows to her. “—you are rather at ease.”

Kym frowns, then picks a flower and holds in up in front of her. The purple thing stays alive in her palm, and she admires the definitive shape of the bud, the curve of the petals. 

“I miss my husband.”

That stops Lauren. She turns to regard her with some new thing—pity, Kym thinks.

“I see.”

“But—” and she looks back out to the river, watching the water move on.

On and on and on.

“My time came. My clock stopped” She looks back at Lady Spring, now covered in soft marigold light. “I suppose it was the point where I should have left.”

Such as she leaves her now, turning across the riverbank. Lady Spring stares after her, a little frown on her face. The anthuriums wither, fade away in little scarlet rivulets.

The mortal does not notice the pain of her bare feet skimming rock; she merely walks on.

And on.

———

They plead with him to stop when he strings the harp, teases the thing with his fingers like knives and blades to the pads of them.

They do not protest out of pain, out of exasperation. But when he comes to the town on the edge of Death itself, he plays a tune so sorrowful and with such mourning as to cause the villagers to fall to their knees, moved by his grief as himself must be.

_Please,_ they say, _find who you long for, so you can find peace again._

He says that he will, a promise he cannot keep, and walks on.

And on.

When he comes to the edge, he looks down into the expanse below and feels no foreboding.

This is the home they all must return to, at some point. The earth, it swallows as much as it opens, takes as much as it gives.

So with little apprehension, little hesitation, he steels himself and begins the venture down.

Down, down, down.

  
  
  
  
_3\. Descend_

  
  
  
  
  


She encounters Death once again, and she finds him to be surprisingly amiable.

He is sitting in a room filled with hyacinths, violent violet and aggressive amber, all blossoming alarmingly. When he sees her, he bows his head.

“You.”

Kym frowns. “You know of me?”

He smiles, and it is a thing of wicked countenance. “I think so. My wife told me about you.”

She flushes, not used to being noticed. 

She’d been a thing of vitality, once, had danced with the nymphs in the forest like she’d been built for it, but down here in the land of the dead she was still nothing but exactly that--forgotten in her absence as a lost child is to a drowning ocean.

“Only good things, I do hope?” She jokes, and Death continues to surprise her by chuckling with her.

“Well, she tells me you’re rather comfortable here.”

Kym closes her eyes, lashes kissing her cheeks. “I do suppose that is so.”

Lord Death gives her his time. He leans back from the table, scrolls falling from his wrists, and levels her with a calm, polite indifference.

“Why do you have these?” She gestures to the flowers in his office. He pauses, and then laughs a little.

“What—these?” He fingers a lavender blossom, the hyacinth not falling when he touches it.

“Your apologies—they are all held up in here.”

He nods. “That is so.”

She frowns. “Why do you ask for _these_ of your wife? Surely you can have some other flower?”

He shakes his head no, a crown of brittle thorns swaying with the motion. “I have many things to apologize for.”

She regards him with a blank look. “And—?”

“And I...need her to give me the means to make them.” His face takes on a soft expression, looking stolidly at the hyacinths with a kind of respect that she was sure wasn't directed at the flower.

She nods, understanding. Lord Death smiles easily and stands, his himaton shifting galaxies as he rises. “Do _you_ need something of me?”

Kym bites her lip reluctantly. “No. I am quite alright.”

And she leaves, no flowers in her wake. Kieran stares, then sighs.

They all come to him, eventually. All want something; because they are only humans, after all. And humans want more than they can afford.

“That’s rather hypocritical of you.”

His wife is there, called by his distress as she always is. Beads of elderflower form underneath his feet. He raises an eyebrow, taking her hand in his. 

“What do you mean?”

She looks back at where the mortal once stood. 

“We wanted something once, too.”

He pauses. Then smiles.

“That is so.”

———

He sits in the boat, striking the harp with practiced ease, sound bleeding from his lips. 

The river rushes on, but it is not as harsh as the ones above. Instead it flows as all rivers do, but quieter, respect for the dead in its movement. The ferryman clutches the golden thing he’d given close to his chest, moving the long wooden oar with practiced ease.

“He won’t be happy to see you, mortal.”

That gives him pause. He looks at the ferryman, mask like one who cures the plague, breathing down his neck like a blackbird would its beak.

“What makes you say that?” His voice is level, a calm he does not feel within.

He turns back to his oar, the darkness falling front of them, splitting the river into two stages of light.

“Because you are here to take something back.”

He frowns, his harp held tighter. “That is so.”

His guide shakes his head. “You can’t take things back. Not from here.”

He stands, the boat maintaining its balance even as his weight shifts its axis.

“It will not be like that. I’ll handle it.”

“You’ll say that. But I know the ways of mortals.” He looks back at him, and the mask hides what must be a mirthful expression. “They are greedier than Death, by miles and miles.”

Will scoffs, and takes up his mantle once again.

“I’ll prove you wrong.”

The ferryman tuts. “By saying that, thus, you have proved me right.”

The river rushes on.

———

She remembers times with her husband when she is alone.

She always does, the moments with the one she so loved coming up like pads of lily floating in stagnant water, coming and going intermittently, and feels the pang of guilt at nearly forgetting to mourn him. But it comes unbidden all the same, flooding her with uncharacteristic melancholy. 

She recalls the day they promised themselves to each other; both in white and both at peace, no snakes to be seen in the grass. She held his hands up to her lips with silent practice, and he’d sung a song of such happiness that she was filled with it too, moved like the day moves on underneath the clouds with his words. 

Now she sits, missing him. On the rock of Asphodel, feeling the buds of the same name blooming between her toes, she clutches at her hair, drags palms down her face, and wonders if the guilt will ever leave her.

She never did deserve him, someone so loving, so willing.

And now she is alone, and will stay that way.

It's appalling how she does not mind it so much as she should.

———

He comes to the dog and pays his dues. 

They lap up the oat cakes with a voracious fury, like ones whose appetites have not been sated in centuries, and he plays a soporific melody, one of plucked goose down and soft abundance, and the ferocious guard, it sleeps like a lamb.

He presses on, passing the crystals on the ceiling, the glinting rocks beneath his scuffed feet. He treads with no lack of ardor, searching for the one person he wants to see in a sea of the dead. He passes many ghosts and wisps who eye his life with unabashed envy, but he ignores them, the sun sewn in his veins protecting him. 

He reaches the door and pushes it open. Darkness falls on one borne of light.

  
  
  
  


_4\. Appeal_

  
  
  
  
  


Bella doesn’t like the man, alive and whole, in her domain.

“Why are you here, mortal?”

He is out of breath, all scars and muscle dripping in a farce of sweat, and she purses her lips at the little instrument he holds tightly in his fist.

“I’m here for my wife, O’ Sorceress.”

She frowns, tossing her blush-rose hair with a whip of vipers. “Is that so?”

“It is. I intend to find her.”

She scoffs, magic blooming at her fingertips. “You are a fool, then.”

Before she can hold up a hand to drag him out by his ankles, he brings up his lyre.

“Might I play something for you?”

She pauses.

She knows Death and Life—they love what the mortals create like they love their own. They are gemstones and flowers in themselves, these things the humans hold onto.

She knows it will be their folly—that they will agree to things they cannot do if they hear the things this one has to say.

So she should not allow it.

So—

“Very well.” The consent is ripped out of her at his pleading, pitiful, blank look, like he knows what he is doing.

And so he begins.

———

She feels it before she can hear it.

Music.

She should have known what he’d do.

———

He is led into a quiet room of flowers and crystals. It is nothing like the ostentatious display he’d been expecting, the one rumored to be the throne room of Life and Death. Instead, it is simple, nobody else there but him, the mortal, and them, those who would decide his fate.

Belladonna announces him as a mortal—a living one, one who managed to tame Cerberus and charm her enough to send him here—and their eyebrows raise. 

“Send him here.” Death says, and his voice is an amalgamation of millions.

He walks forward and bows at the waist, before straightening his spine and standing before them, defiance in the set of his shoulders.

“Lord—Lady. I come here today with a request.”

The Goddess sitting beside him nods, scarlet lilies taking shape at her fingertips. “Go on.”

He sighs. “My name is William. I wish to take my wife back to the land of the living.”

Kieran sighs, helpless, weary. “You know that you cannot—“

“ _Please.”_ He feels desperation creeping like ivy up his legs, and he resists the urge to drop onto his knees. “I’m sure it was before her time—she didn’t choose it.”

“Nobody does.” Life speaks, her legs shifting underneath her dark gray peplos, dotted with a layer of moonflowers. “But—”

“If I sing—” and he holds up his instrument, the one that has carried him this far, now. “If I sing for the both of you, will that come to something?”

There is tense silence, and Lord Death makes to interject, his himation of dark grey sweeping through the room as he turns to regard the mortal man who wants everything, one of a breed he has nurtured countless times before. He opens his mouth to speak—

And then is stopped by a delicate hand on his own. He turns to his wife in confusion, but she merely holds a finger to her lips. Then, turning back to him, she speaks in a soft, gentle tone.

“We do like music. Sing for us, then.”

And so he does.

He tells them of the snakes, the night, the white of his wife’s peplos, blood lying bleeding. 

He tells them of his journey below, his venture across the Styx and the taming of the rabid dogs. 

He says he wants this more than he has ever wanted anything else.

His is the tale of want and need, a story not ignored in the game of give and take.

They both stand there and regard him, pain and grief in motion through his fingers and reverberating through his heart into the stale air of below. Then, Spring speaks.

“Who is she—your wife?”

He pauses in his music, hope burgeoning like the dawn.

“Her name is Kym.”

They freeze.

———

She sees him.

He sees her.

They run to each other.

“You’re not—“

“Not dead, no.”

“Then—?”

“I came for you.”

“ _Why_ would you do that?”

“Because I need to take you back.”

She shakes her head, flowers falling from her hair, and he is enraptured as he always will be when he looks at her. She is dressed in simple light gray, the cloth flowing over her like the waterfall at the end of Asphodel.

“You don’t _know_ how these things work, do you, Williame?” She looks into his eyes.

“I know what I know—”

“Don’t say—“

“I’ll handle it.” He says, and his voice is not strong. “I’ll _handle it.”_

She shakes her head mournfully. “You can’t.”

He frowns, attempting to take her face in his hands. But he can’t--he stops. He can’t touch her, not now, and it does hurt him so.

“Do you _want_ to? Go back?”

She pauses. Then:

“Yes, more than anything, more than I know. But that’s exactly why I can’t”

———

They discuss. He sits in waves of hyacinths, she in her bed of daisies.

“We can _not—”_

“I know.” She says, and cups his jaw in hers. In the dim light of his domain--hers now too--his face is cast in ripples and waves.

“You know what he wants. We can’t give that to him. To them.”

She sighs, rising and beginning to pace, harried balsamine coming up crying from the crevices.

“Do you think she even wants to go back?”

He frowns. “I don’t know.”

They look at each other.

“Do you remember the man that died and became a flower?”

He can’t help but laugh. “Which one of them, Goddess? There are many possessing that folly.”

“The one who was so enraptured with himself that he laid down by the river and died.” And she blooms narcissi for him at the foot of their bed. He nods.

“Well—?”

“That is what will happen here.”

“He does not seem so selfish.”

She shakes her head mournfully. “That may not be so. But when mortals allow themselves to be caught up in anything they push it to excess. He will not be able to handle it, I think.”

Kieran considers. 

“But you know his pain, do you not?”

Lauren sighs. “That _is_ the thing. I do know. I know it with you.”

He hums. They deliberate in silence.

“I might have an idea,” he declares

She looks at him, and he nods.

“But it will not be kind.”

She moves over to him, coming to lie beside his form. 

“I do not think we can afford to be kind, love.”

———

They let him stay with her while they make their choice.

He sits with her by the river, a mirror of when he was unbroken, and when she was still alight with life.

They cannot hold each other, but they make do; he sits with his arm on her side, she leans into him the way she can.

“Why are you still hesitant?”

She sighs, running her hand abstractedly through her hair, a color that matches the dull blue of the water below. “Do you understand what you are doing to yourself?”

“You just answered my question with another.” He looks at her. “Don’t do this.”

“You know how Death works. It cannot turn back.” She looks up at him, her eyes blazing, and she’d never looked more beautiful than that moment. “It was my time—“

“It _wasn’t.”_

She shakes her head. “Just because it wasn’t for you doesn’t mean it wasn’t true in the first place.”

Silence stretches over them like a torrential storm, charged with lightning and gong chimes of thunder.

“Do you remember that man? The one who died by the lake?”

Will nods. “I do. He died because of his own reflection. Because he couldn’t find it in himself to love another. That so?”

Kym thins her lips, pressing her hand farther into the hard dirt. 

“That is so...but I found myself wondering--time and again—“

“Yes?”

“If that applies to others as well. Others who are not as caught up with themselves, but in their need for others.” She turns to him. “Do you understand? What I am saying?”

He grits his teeth, but he does, he does understand. His face tries to be placid, unaffected, but the remorse creeping in cannot be disguised by surety.

“Do you love me?” He asks, forlornly. 

She breaks, wishing to any God that would listen that she could be with him again.

“I do. I never will stop.”

“Then please, just consider.” He locks his eyes with hers, and they are visions of blue starlight. She can’t help but smile at the earnest boy who’d won her heart and stolen her reserves in full.

“Ok.”

Belladonna comes for them, and Will leaves to receive his judgement, and hers too, she surmises. She waits, knowing full well how this will end.

———

“We’ve given you a chance.”

He bows, grateful. “ _Thank you—”_

Kieran holds up a palm, and he stops his appeal. “There are conditions.”

“Tell me what they are.”

He sets his jaw, grits his teeth. He’ll handle it, he will.

“You can take her back.” Lauren says, holding up a placid hyacinth and tucking it in his golden hair. An apology, a thing of good luck, both meanings swirling in the unsaid. 

“But—”

“But you may not look back at her.” She shakes her head with the verdict. “Not until she is in the Sun once more.”

He gasps. “How will I—?”

“You must trust her. Trust yourself.”

Kieran looks grim, and Will bows before his grave countenance in reluctant acceptance. 

“I do hope I don’t see either of you again for a very long time.”

It is a high compliment, coming from Death himself.

  
  


_5\. Ascend_

  
  


  
  


He cannot feel her fingers.

Many a time on the journey back, he is close to withering. The ferryman gives him looks of both amazement and pity, as if the fact that he’s managed to do something nobody else has is something to both laud and loathe. He doesn’t say anything to him. He barely touches his lyre for fear that it will spirit her away from him.

He moves up, up, up, and the hyacinths woven into his hair grow new with the light.

He reaches it. Brings a hand up to feel the beating of the Sun and the warmth of its import. He nearly shouts, the blonde-haired man who weathered centuries overcome with stark and bleating emotion, but he refrains from joy until he can see her face again.

He turns. He forgets.

She falls. 

He regrets.

———

She returns with the knowledge that what happened was inevitable.

She goes to Lauren immediately, and her pretty face crumbles when she sees the one who has come to be her favorite mortal. 

“He couldn’t—?”

She shrugs, a thing of weary defeat. 

“He got too caught up.”

Lauren nods solemnly. She waves a hand, and oak leaves fall at her feet.

“Courage, Kym. I don’t see it being long, now.”

Kym shakes her head.

“I know that.”  
  


  
  
  


_6\. End_

  
  


He mourns, as he always does. Marigolds abound.

The songs destroy the plants above, and it isn’t long before the hounds of hell are at his coattails, wanting something from him this time, instead of the other way around. 

He begs them to give him peace.

They do in the form of death, and all is equal once again.

———

She finds him again, and this time they can both touch each other.

They embrace, clothes and limbs entangled. She weeps, and for once he can too, open and unabashed, free in death as he could not be in life. Their tears fall and crystallize in the cold, mixing with the diamonds littering the floor.

Then, they walk to the river peacefully, and drown themselves in all the things left to their own doing.

Life and Death watch with a quiet acceptance. They knew. All did.

“They fight until they destroy one another.” He says. Lauren nods and grips his arm tighter.

The judgement passes.

The figs of life fall not far from the tree.

**Author's Note:**

> Me on my bed getting this idea: NOT AGAIN DAMMIT WHY—
> 
> Seriously idk what I’m doing I’m so so so sorry hnnnshdhiufdhiku ;; I wrote this all in one day kill me ;;
> 
> Sorry if I can’t do justice to Kywi ;-; I tried my hardest 
> 
> Once again here is the flower symbolism masterlist. Have fun my lovelies :>
> 
> Comments/kudos are figs! <3
> 
> Contact: artsofisha@gmail.com
> 
> -thumbipeach


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